


It Was Only a Kiss

by donteattheappleshook



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Idiots with Feelings, Neverland (Once Upon a Time), Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:40:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28542708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donteattheappleshook/pseuds/donteattheappleshook
Summary: Neverland may kill her. If it’s not her fear for Henry, then it will her exhaustion, or her doubt, or the overwhelming despair that she’ll never get out of here alive, that she’ll fail her son, that fail everyone. There’s only one thing she’s found that can silence it all, that can make her feel real again. She shouldn’t be seeking comfort in Hook. She shouldn’t, but she does. It was only a kiss. That was all it was supposed to be. But now that she’s started, she doesn’t think she can stop. Not now that she knows what it’s like.Canon compliant for part 1, canon divergent for part 2.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 14
Kudos: 70
Collections: CS Neverland New Year





	It Was Only a Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> @elizabeethan and I are very aware that we are basically writing the same story. This is how the event started. A big thank you to Elizabeth for betaing this fic and to @xhookswenchx as well for letting me brainstorm out loud with you guys.

_Part One: Neverland_

It had all started with a kiss. That was all it was supposed to be. Just a kiss; a one time thing. She’d been feeling good, she’d been relieved, he’d saved her father’s life for god’s sake. What she hadn’t expected was that kissing him would make her feel better- would make her feel like, for a second, things would _stay_ better. For a whole thirty seconds, she’d forgotten that she was trapped in fucking Neverland, that her son was missing, that her parents were breathing down her neck, constantly giving her these sad desperate eyes, begging for mother daughter bonding time or ready to offer up speeches about hope. 

No, for thirty goddamn seconds- for the first time in months- she’d just been Emma Swan and he’d just been Captain Hook and nothing else had mattered. It had been addictive, that feeling, that relief, the rushing of her blood and the turning in her stomach being brought on by excitement and desire rather than fear and anxiety. So she’d shut it down. “Don’t follow me,” she’d ordered, afraid of what might happen if he did, of what she’d do. She couldn’t start flirting and making out with Hook, or doing anything else with him for that matter. Not while her son was out there, not if she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop. 

To his credit, he respects her wishes. He waits a whole twenty minutes before returning to camp, arms full of firewood. She doesn’t miss the nod her father gives him and it raises a strange sort of satisfaction in her. She doesn’t know exactly what went on between them on their little adventure but this is the first time David hasn’t glared daggers at him since they met. When Hook’s eyes meet hers though, she swears the whole damn camp must feel the tension between them. 

Her body stiffens, that twisting in her gut coming back in a mix of the good and the bad now, but he doesn’t say anything. He only smiles at her a little sadly before dumping the wood into the fire pit so Regina can light it. Then he takes a seat across the camp, as far from her as he can manage and pulls out his flask. She only realises she’s staring when she catches herself watching his throat as he swallows. _Stop._

“We should turn in,” she says, noting how dark it is suddenly. Hadn’t it been midday less than an hour ago? Does time even exist on this island where it seems to both stand still and move too fast? 

“Aye,” Hook says, nodding and returning his flask to his pocket. “I’ll take the first watch.” She almost expects her parents or even Regina to protest, but to her surprise no one does. 

As they set about unrolling the bed mats, she can’t help but glance over at him. Something is… off. She’s not sure what it is, but he’s quiet. Way too quiet. Normally she can’t get him to stop talking- one innuendo or flirtatious comment after another- but now, nothing. 

When she glances over again, he’s watching her, eyes boring into her like he’s trying to burn a hole through her and still, there’s that sadness, that regret. _That’s_ what it looks like: regret. Does he regret kissing her? After all his quips about fancying her and the little playful smirks, has he changed his mind? 

She focuses back on what she’s doing. Who cares if he regrets it? _She_ should regret it. It was a stupid idea. Her son is here. Everyday he gets further and further away from her. She knows how easy it is to start believing you’ve been abandoned. How easy it is to slide into the role of an orphan, to build walls. The thought of Henry feeling any of what she spent her whole childhood feeling - it kills her and that unpleasant twisting in her gut is back, the one that makes her want to vomit. She doesn’t know how to get rid of it, how to stop it. 

Well, she does know one way. But she can’t do that. Not again. She tells herself that over and over again. _She can’t_ . She tells herself that as she lays down on her mat. She tells herself as she listens to Regina complain about sleeping in the forest. She tells herself as she hears her parents whispering sickeningly sweet nothings to each other. She tells herself again as she hears everyone’s breathing even out and the jungle goes quiet- _she can’t_. But they’re all asleep. Well, everyone except her. Everyone except her and Hook. 

She hears him sigh, a deep, heavy thing, and she turns over to face him. She can’t see him well in the dark but she can make out that his head has fallen into his hand, and can picture him running it through his hair in frustration. Even from here, she can sense how tense he is. 

His hand scrubs over his face and he lets out another one of those sighs, this one angrier, and stands suddenly to cross the small space quickly, pacing back and forth. He reaches a tree then and she jumps as he strikes it. 

She must have made a sound because his head snaps towards her, clearly on high alert, and it makes her feel a little better having him keeping watch. His shoulders relax when he realises it was her and not some lost boy trying to find his way into the camp. 

She meets his eyes in the dark. Even in the blackness of the night, she can feel his stare heavy on hers and her heart hammers against her ribcage. She shuts her eyes tight, determined to just stop thinking about everything- about him, about Henry, about Pan,- and just sleep, but sleep doesn’t come. Instead, she finds more fears, more worries, more doubts, and soon she’s sitting up, scrubbing a hand over her own face. 

The tell tale sound of his flask being opened makes her turn to look at him as he drinks deeply from it before leaning against the tree he’d struck earlier. His head falls back against it as another sigh leaves him. There’s a long silence, the jungle is heavy and quiet as the dead, not even a rustling of wind or a chirping cricket, and it sends a shiver down her spine. 

He doesn’t say anything, but after a moment, he raises his arm while holding the flask out in her direction. She only hesitates for a moment- she shouldn’t do this. She shouldn’t have a midnight drink with Hook. She shouldn’t want to ask him what’s wrong. Shouldn’t want him to ask _her_ what’s wrong. 

She shouldn’t, but she does anyway. 

Emma takes the flask from him and swallows a mouthful, wondering for a moment how it could still be full. Knowing him, it’s probably enchanted. The rum feels good as it burns down her throat, settling hot in her stomach. She takes another drink. 

She hands it back to him finally and he takes it, his fingers closing over hers around the bottle, and she looks up at him with a sharp inhale. Neither of them move even though every fiber in her body is telling her to step closer. Or to run away. She nearly does, nearly uses their shared grip to pull him closer, nearly turns and heads back to her mat to fein sleep. 

But then he drops his hand, taking the bottle with him, and she regains her senses. This is _Hook_ , she reminds herself. He’s one of the bad guys, or he was. She’s not even sure anymore. But he still hasn’t said anything, and it’s starting to worry her. Here they are, almost alone in the dark, drinking together, and he hasn’t so much as raised an eyebrow at her. Surely he can’t regret kissing her _that_ much. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks finally, the words falling out of her mouth of their own free will. 

“Nothing.” 

“I don’t believe you,” she pushes. 

He shrugs, taking another drink. “You don’t have to.” 

“ _Hook_.”

“ _Swan_ ,” he repeats and she rolls her eyes. That makes him smile a little at least. “Why are you up?” he asks, turning the question on her. 

“Can’t sleep,” she says simply, taking the flask from him again. It’s definitely enchanted. 

“Why not?” he pushes and when she doesn’t answer, he grins at her a little. _Fine_ . They can keep their secrets. “Funny thing about Neverland,” he says then, and she looks at him wearily. “The ones who’ve always known love sleep soundly. It’s the ones who’ve been left behind who can’t find rest. That’s why you hear the Lost Boys at night.” She straightens her shoulders, her jaw clenching. _Open book,_ he’d said. He nods, like she’s confirmed something. “So you do hear them.” 

“How’s your hand?” she snaps, changing the subject. He doesn’t seem so restful himself.

“Which one?” he asks and she’s relieved to hear the teasing slipping back into his tone. Instead of answering, she takes another drink. He flexes his fingers a few times, turning his hand over to look at his knuckles. 

“I’ve had worse,” he tells her, gesturing vaguely with his hook and she nearly chokes on the rum. He smirks and takes the bottle back when she hands it over. “You should sleep, Swan. Get some rest.” 

“Yeah, well,” is all she can say. She’d love to sleep, but as long as Henry’s out there… Another silence hangs between them. “He’ll be alright,” Killian says then, and her heart swells into her throat, her voice coming out cracked and weak when she speaks. She wonders if Henry’s sleeping tonight, or if he already feels like a lost boy. 

“How do you know?” 

“If he’s anything like his father,” he starts and then looks at the ground for a moment before meeting her gaze again. “If he’s anything like _you,_ then I’ve no doubt he can outwit Pan long enough for us to find him. He’s brave, Swan. You taught him well. I know a survivor when I see one.” 

And that’s it. She breaks. A sob bursts from her chest, her hand snapping up to cover her mouth as every horrible thought she’s had since they got here- every thought she’s pushed down and refused to face- comes rushing to the surface. 

She _didn’t_ teach him. Any bravery, any survival drive he has isn’t because of her. She left him. She abandoned him. She left him to fend for himself in a world that she knew was nothing but cruel. She’s only known him a year. And if this year is all she gets with him, if Pan wins, if he takes Henry from her… She can’t lose him, not when she’s only just found him.

She struggles to muffle her cries, desperate not to wake her parents but unable to stop herself now. She can’t handle another speech about hope, about good always winning. Not when they’re so close to finding Henry but just as close to losing him forever. Good doesn’t always win; life’s proved that to her over and over again. If she’d kept him, if she’d just held him that one time, he wouldn’t be here at all. He’d be safe. He’d be with her. There wouldn’t be any magic or villains or monsters to threaten him. This is her fault. She can’t lose him. 

Hook only hesitates a moment before he’s pulling her into his arms, cradling the back of her head in his hand and letting her tears seep into his shirt and his chest, letting her silence her cries against the leather of his coat. Her fingers find the chain on his neck and twist around it for something to hang onto, something to ground her. 

He doesn’t say a word and she’s grateful for it. There’s nothing he could say that could make this better. Everything hurts. Her chest burns from strain and fear and she can’t stop thinking, can’t stop crying, though that’s all she wants. She wants it to stop, all of it. She wants to stop hurting. She wishes she’d never come to Storybrooke, wishes she’d never broken the fucking curse, wishes she’d never seen Neal again and let him and Tamara and all this fucking magic and madness into Henry’s life. He’d have been better off without them- without her. 

Her sobs slow after what feels like hours, all the energy drained from her body, but the pain won’t go away. She may have run out of tears to shed, but the fear and self-loathing are still wracking her body, making her shake as she holds tighter to Hook’s necklace, her other hand finding the fabric of his shirt and bunching it in her fist. 

She can hear him shushing her softly, his lips pressing against her temple as she trembles again. The sharp pain in her chest morphs into an ache that fills both of her lungs, suffocating her, drowning her. It overwhelms her, the grief, as though she’ll never be happy again. She imagines this is what it’s like to have her heart ripped out. She wonders if that would hurt less.

She just wants it all to stop. She can’t take it, feels like she’s going to crumble under the weight of it. She just needs something good. Just one fucking good thing, one good feeling. She turns her face into Hook's neck, seeking the warmth of his skin against her drying cheeks and the comfort of his soothing phrases breathed against her ear. She just wants it to stop. She just wants to feel something else, wants to know she still _can_ feel something else. 

She slides her hand from the chain at his chest up to his neck and pulls him down enough so she can press her lips to his. It’s messy and desperate, but he lets her kiss him, lets her fist her fingers in his hair and slide her tongue past his lips, and slowly, the pain is overtaken by this new ache that he stirs in her. It’s not enough, though. His hand is at her hip but she needs it everywhere, she needs him to erase every thought and feeling with his mouth and his hand and his hook. She needs him to make everything go away like he did earlier. She just needs _more_.

Her lips find his jaw and his neck, trailing heady, open-mouth kisses to his collarbone, and she hears his strangled moan as he catches his lip between his teeth, his breath panting above her. 

“Emma,” he whispers, and she knows he thinks they should stop. The others are right there. But like he said, _they_ can sleep soundly. “Emma, wait,” he says, a little desperately as she pushes him back against the tree. But she doesn’t listen. She shuts him up with her mouth on his as her hands reach for the few measly buttons he actually bothered to fasten. Her fingers undo them quickly and move to his belt before he stops her with his hook on her wrist. “Emma, I - I can’t…” 

“What?” she demands to know. Why can’t he? She knows he wants to, she can feel the evidence pressing against her stomach through his leathers, and while his hook may have stopped her, his hand has a death grip on her hip. His head falls back against the tree.

“I have to tell you something,” he says, and she can tell from his tone that she won’t like it; that it’ll hurt. She doesn’t want that. She’s had enough of that. She just wants _him_. 

“I don’t want to know.” She shakes her head and tugs him closer, and he lets out a sound that’s close to a whine.

She knew kissing him was dangerous; even as she pulls him back to her and kisses him again, she feels the rush of relief from the exhilaration and she knows she’s already hooked. She craves him and the release she knows he can bring her. “Please,” she says pathetically against his lips.

He doesn’t stop her from kissing him, but he doesn’t move until she reaches for his belt again and he stops her once more. She nearly lets out a cry of frustration, as she snaps her head back to glare at him. He barely gives her a second to be truly angry before his hand grasps the back of her neck and he kisses her like he’s drowning, like she’s the air he needs to breathe. 

He turns her, pushing her back against the tree behind her as he tilts her head so he can open her mouth and find her tongue with his own. She moans softly against his lips and reaches desperately for him, clawing at his jacket, sliding her hands into his open shirt, dragging them through the hair at his chest. 

He pulls back with a gasp and takes both her hands, pulling them away from him and trapping her arms at her side. She has a mind to protest but his lips find her neck, trailing down her throat to her collarbone and down her chest and the words die on her lips. His teeth and tongue tease at the spot beneath her ear, the hollow of her throat, the valley between her breasts, making her writhe against him. 

He finally releases one of her hands so that his own can trace up her side, slide under her shirt and cup her breast in his palm. His thumb drags over the peak through her bra and he swallows her gasp with his mouth. She frees her other hand, giving up on undressing him and tangling both into his hair as he shoves her shirt aside with his hook and drags his tongue over one nipple before taking it into his mouth. 

She’s too loud again and his lips quiet her even as his fingers trail down her stomach to the waist of her jeans. He pauses, toying with the button, the scratch of his nails against her skin driving her insane and he looks at her as he pulls away long enough to meet her eyes. She realises what he’s waiting for and nods furiously, dragging his mouth back to hers as he makes quick work of popping the button and yanking down the zipper. 

The first touch of his fingers against her center is bliss and fire. She only barely manages to catch her moan, it coming out as a desperate sigh, her forehead falling against his as she grabs his lapels the way she had that afternoon. She expects him to say something, to smirk or laugh or whisper filth in her ear, but instead he just watches her, eyes fixated on her face as his fingers slide inside of her and find a rhythm. 

When his thumb finds her clit, she can’t contain the sounds she makes anymore and he captures her mouth with his to keep her quiet, his kisses languid and slow and deep as his hand works her higher. He’s everywhere, his tongue sliding against her own, his fingers curling and circling, his chest pressed to hers. He’s all she can see and think and feel and she lets it overwhelm her, lets all the horrible thoughts of the day and of this place slip away under his touch. 

When her mouth leaves his for air- hands fisting tighter in the leather and pulling him even closer as she pants and gasps, already nearly there- his lips find her neck. He presses slow, deliberate kisses against her skin, his tongue playing against every sensitive spot he can find as his fingers and thumb work faster, driving her to that edge she so desperately wants to fall over. 

“Yes,” she whispers into the darkness when he finds just the right spot, just the right pace, and he redoubles his efforts. She can feel him watching her, can see the awe and the reverence in his eyes as he watches her come apart on his hand, and it’s too much. She drags his mouth back to hers, rolling her hips and riding his fingers until she comes with a gasp, her head falling back against the tree as for one, small moment, she feels _something_ good again. 

When she comes to, he’s pressing soft, gentle kisses to her jaw and below her ear as his fingers slow within her. She doesn’t protest when he takes her lips with his own again, too boneless and blissed out to register the intimacy of his kiss, to be bothered by it. She reaches for the laces of his pants, but he shakes his head, resting his forehead against hers. 

There’s a moment when she can tell he wants to say something, his whole body tensing and his brow pulling down like he’s in pain. But instead he kisses her again, harder and more desperate than before. There’s an edge to it, like he worries this will be the last time. 

And it should be, she reminds herself. Fuck. She just let Captain Hook finger her against a tree a few dozen feet from where her parents sleep. She nearly let him fuck her against it. What the hell was she thinking? She wants to tell him that this was a mistake, that it was another one time thing,but as his lips leave hers and a sigh leaves him, she knows she can’t promise either of them that. 

The moment he steps back, she can feel the bad thoughts starting to creep in again and she nearly grabs him and holds him close just to keep them at bay. It’s never been like this. She’s never craved the comfort of a man’s presence, of his touch before. And it scares the shit out of her. 

“You should get some sleep, love,” he tells her and she nods, only half registering what he’s saying. She doesn’t know what to say. Should she thank him? Address what this was or wasn’t? Warn him not to tell anyone? No, he wouldn’t do that. So she says nothing, setting her clothes right and returning to her mat. 

She watches him as she tries to sleep, watches the tension return to his shoulders and the heaviness return to his composure. When he looks up at one point, finds her in the dark and catches her studying him, his brow pinches tight and then relaxes, a melancholy and a want settling over his features and it stirs new longing in her gut. _Fuck. She should never have kissed him._

_***_

The next morning, Mary Margaret tells her Neal is alive. She doesn’t believe it. Not until she looks to Hook and sees the guilt and the shame on his face and she knows it’s true. Was that what he wanted to tell her last night? Was that why he wouldn’t let her touch him? 

Neal’s alive. The revelation settles like a lead weight in her gut. She can’t. She can’t handle him being alive. After all the pain he’d caused her, his death had finally let her put him behind her, let her move on from everything he’d done… let her begin to see the possibility of being happy again. And now he’s coming crashing back into her life again. 

They have to find him. She knows they do; he’s Henry’s father. She owes her son the attempt to rescue him if nothing else. She may never forgive him, but Henry has a right to make up his own mind, so they head off after him. Another detour, another chance at breaking her heart again, another chance to hurt. 

She doesn’t know why she tells Mary Margaret. The words just slip out. ‘ _I kissed him._ ’ She can’t explain why she did it either, can’t explain to the woman who preaches hope that she feels hopeless, that finding solace in Hook and what he makes her feel is the only thing keeping her alive, keeping her going right now. She’d never understand. 

‘ _I’m sure Neal will understand,’_ she says, and it feels like a slap. She thinks she needs _Neal_ to forgive _her_ , after everything he’s done. She doesn’t say much else the rest of the way. 

“I kissed Emma.” The confession makes her roll her eyes. They did a hell of a lot more than kiss. How is that his biggest secret? But what he says next, about moving on, about finding love again… _until I met you_. 

Her heart hammers against her chest and she fights to ignore all the feelings his reveal brings to the surface. She’d thought maybe, with Neal dead, she could start to _think_ of moving on, of trying again. But he’s not dead. And Hook just told her he’s falling for her and all of it is too much and she can’t handle it. She needs to focus on Henry. He’s all that matters. Her feelings, what she wants, it doesn’t matter. 

When they make their way back to camp, Neal finds her and she feels the need to apologize. Everything she said in the cave was true, but it was harsh. He may have hurt her more than anyone in her life ever had or likely will again, but she can’t help but feel guilty. She blames Mary Margaret. 

“I have a secret, too,” he tells her. “I’ll never stop fighting for you.” 

Her throat constricts, she can barely talk, barely breathe through it. _No_ ! she wants to shout. _No, I don’t want that_. He hadn’t listened to her at all. She’d told him she wished he was dead, that the idea of him being alive, of being a walking, talking reminder of the worst moments of her life, was too much for her to handle. A part of her may always love him, and she’ll hate that, but she can never forgive him. The thought that he believes they can find their way back to each other, that she can excuse what he did as though it doesn’t matter… she feels small, worthless, all of the bad creeping back in. 

He walks away first, going after the others, but she takes a moment in an attempt to compose herself and bottle up all the emotions once again so she can just focus on why she’s here and not on her heart being slowly ripped to shreds. 

“Are you coming, Swan?” she hears, and she looks up to see Hook standing a few feet away. His whole body is hesitant, poised to run if she tells him to leave. But she doesn’t say anything. She still can’t find words. 

_I’ll never stop fighting for you._ _I’ll never stop fighting for you._ It plays over and over in her head and she wants to scream. The thought of him being there, of Neal being around all the time, trying to worm his way back into her life and her heart -

“I’m sorry,” Hook says then and her eyes snap up to his. She frowns. Why is _he_ sorry? “If my confession made things awkward for you and Balefire, I apologize. It wasn’t my intention. I heard you speaking just now and -” she wants to laugh. She almost does laugh. 

“I told him I wished he was dead.”

“You what?” 

“In the caves. I told him I wished he was dead, that having him in my life hurt too much, that I couldn’t take it. And he took that as an invitation to try to worm his way back in. And Mary Margaret, my _mom_ , wants me to let him. She’s all about forgiveness,” she practically spits. “But if she knew what he did, if she knew…” _She’d probably say the same thing,_ Emma realises with a twist in her stomach. 

“What do _you_ want?” Killian asks then, taking a step forward and then another, closing the distance between them. He’s still hesitant, still not turned towards her, but his head ducks down, trying to catch her eye and she does let out a laugh this time. Bitter and hopeless. She doesn’t even know what she wants. She can’t remember the last time someone asked her that. She just wants it all to stop, the barrage of memories, old and fresh wounds opening up again leaving her raw and exposed and vulnerable. She just wants it all to stop. 

She shouldn’t. Not after his confession, not when he might think it means more than it does. But she reaches for him, taking his face in both her hands and pulling him to her, slanting her mouth over his, invading his mouth with her tongue, desperate for that release she’s come to associate with him. 

He doesn’t miss a beat, both arms wrapping around her waist, tightening and pulling her closer as he groans into her mouth. This, _this_ is what she wants. His lips devour her, tongue delving deep and demanding as his hand traces her side where she isn’t wedged against him. His fingers trail over her breast, her waist, her hip and her thigh, his arm dragging her hips against his own as he rolls them against her, the hard ridge of him pressing against her center through all their clothes and making her gasp. 

He bites her lip, soothing it with his tongue before doing the same to her chin and her jaw and her neck and her shoulder, never stopping the steady grind of his cock against the seam of her jeans. She’s lost in the ache and the passion and the pleasure. _Fucking hell,_ how he can make her feel this good with all their clothes on is beyond her, but if he stops, she might kill him. 

“Emma?” Mary Margaret’s voice cuts through the quiet and she wants to cry as Hook jumps back from her before her mother can emerge from the dense forest. She looks between the two of them, Hook with his back to her, his hand crossed over and resting on the hilt of his sword as he says something about them having thought they heard lost boys lurking in the jungle. She helps them do a sweep but decides they’re safe and they head back to the camp. She can feel him watching her the whole way back. 

***

They almost die. Both of them. Over a fucking lighter. 

Okay, she knows it’s not about the lighter, but the fact that they let anything get between them, let anything risk their lives, risk _Henry’s_ life… she’s furious. She hangs on to it, grabs hold of her anger with both hands and doesn’t let go because if she does she knows what will creep in. The fear. The fear that gripped her when she saw Killian at the shadow’s mercy. 

She tells herself it was hatred and anger at Pan that made her find her magic. But she knows that’s a lie. It was him. The thought that she would lose him. She couldn’t lose him. Not after what he said. _When I win your heart, Emma, and I will win it, it will not be because of any trickery. It’ll be because you want me_. 

Even now, remembering his promise sends her heart racing and her blood rushing through her veins and she _wants_. She’d almost kissed him then, almost let him in, almost let herself believe that maybe there was a possibility… 

And then he went and almost got himself killed and she remembered again, remembered that she couldn’t let herself want him because everyone she’s ever cared about has left her, hurt her, abandoned her. Why would he be any different? 

The whole way back to camp, Neal won’t even look at her. It takes her a moment to realise why. Because of her magic. He hates it, is disgusted by it. She heard it in his voice when he asked if Regina was teaching her and it hurts to hear him disparage it, to hear him fear it. 

But then, suddenly, they’re arguing again and she snaps. Her mother warned her about the dangers of both of them having feelings for her. She just hadn’t thought this was what she’d meant. She knew that Mary Margaret wanted her to choose Neal, to reunite her family, and she worried that Hook might not react well. But she’d never imagined the risk they would put themselves in. Both of them. She can’t choose either of them, no matter that they’ve both asked her to. It’s too dangerous. 

Enough. It's enough. She can’t take it. They already almost died and now they’re at it again. So she tells them like it is. She doesn’t have room for either of them in her life. Not for Neal’s persistence or Hook’s heartfelt confessions. She can’t. Not now. She needs to focus on Henry, on saving him and she can’t do that if she’s spending her time thinking about them. She sees the acceptance on Hook’s face. She can’t do that if she has to watch him die. It would break her. 

When she thought Neal was dead, it had been a relief. All that pain had finally managed to leave her after over a decade. But when she saw Hook pinned against that tree, saw the life being ripped right out of him, god, it might as well have been her own shadow being ripped out. 

She shuts her eyes as she walks away, trying to block the image of him screaming, of him begging her to go, from her mind. But it won’t go away. It just stays there, playing over and over well into the night as she tosses and turns on her mat. Neal has placed his own right next to hers, closer than she’d like. She’d seen her mother smile when he did it. 

Regina’s on watch duty tonight and Emma sighs as she sits up, unable to sleep but glad for the other woman’s indifference to her troubles. Neal sleeps soundly, the sound of his breathing distracting. How can he sleep so peacefully while she continues to grow more and more distressed, continues to break at his hands? It’s not fair. She needs to get away. She needs to just… she glances over at where Hook lays a more respectable distance away. 

She can tell he’s awake. His head turns to look at her after a moment and she meets his eyes. He almost died today. At least he has the good sense to look ashamed. She hates how much she wants to crawl across the space between them, feel his heartbeat under her hand, reassure herself that he’s really okay, let him wrap himself around her and hold her until the dread finally leaves her. She wants to let him take everything away with his body against hers, make her forget everything the way she knows he can do so well. 

But they’re in the middle of the camp with eyes everywhere, so she can’t. Instead, she has to stew in it. In her fear for Henry, in her anxiety over nearly losing two people she cares about today, in her growing shame over her magic, both her possession of it and her failure to control it. At what he said. At what Hook said and how much it made her want, how much it reminded her that she can’t have the things she wants. 

She can’t breathe. Right now, literally feeling like she’s trapped between the two of them, between two paths to inevitable heartbreak, she can’t breathe. She just needs to get away. She stands, storming past Hook and Regina into the thick canopy of trees. It’s not until she’s several hundred feet away that she finally feels like she can take a breath again. 

Emma only realises what a stupid thing she’s done when she hears a rustling behind her. She reaches for her sword but it’s not there and panic seeps through her as she realises she left it next to her mat. But before she can look for a place to hide, a figure emerges from the dark and she lets out a breath. _Hook._

“Apologies,” he says when he spots her, sees what must be the obvious distress on her face. “I saw you left your cutlass behind. It’s not safe to be alone in this jungle. Especially unarmed,” he warns her, just this side of chastising. She rolls her eyes but sees that he’s holding her blade in his hand and appreciates that he’s brought it to her. 

“Thanks,” she says sincerely as she takes it from him. 

He nods, scratching awkwardly behind his ear. “I don’t know what’s troubling you, Emma,” he tells her, and her eyes snap to his at the sound of her name falling from his lips. “But I can’t bring myself to leave you alone out here. I’ll step away,” he promises, gesturing back towards the thick brush. “But I won’t stray far should you need help.”

She wants to roll her eyes. He’s seriously going to go stand somewhere where she can’t see him, ten feet away so she can have her breakdown privately while still protecting her? Why the fuck would he do that? _Because he cares about you._ He nods again, taking her silence as permission and stepping back to leave her be, but she stops him.

“Do you have your flask with you?” she asks.

He reaches into his pocket and retrieves it. “Shall I leave it with you?”

She rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to go, Hook,” she says and he looks wary. “I’m over it. I just… had a moment.” 

“Hmm,” he agrees. “Neverland will do that to you.” 

She scoffs, glaring at him, pissed off now. “It wasn’t Neverland that did it to me,” she snaps and he frowns. “It was _you_ . You and Neal and your stupid fight. Both of you, risking your life like idiots, like _children_!” He looks taken aback, searching for words as shame washes over his features again.

“Swan, I’m sorry. We -”

“Did you even mean what you said?” she demands then and he frowns in confusion. 

“What I said?” 

“All of it. About winning my heart, about moving on from Milah, about wanting me to choose you. All of it.” 

His face grows serious then. “Yes.” 

“Then how the hell could you do that? How can you make promises that imply you sticking around and then just be so goddamn callous with your life?”

“I’m sorry, love, I -”

“Stop apologizing!” she barks. His head snaps back like she slapped him and she stands there, panting and glaring at him. He studies her for a moment then steps forward. 

“No.”

“No?” she demands incredulously.

“No. You’re right. It was reckless and stupid and childish. I know how much you’ve lost and I’m sorry if I made you fear losing more. Whatever this is, Emma,” he says, using her name again as he gestures between them, “whatever it is you do or don’t want from me, I meant what I said in Echo Cave. I meant what I said to you today. I’m not going anywhere. Not until you send me away. And I’m sorry if I made you doubt my intentions.” 

“Stop,” she says, unable to hear more. Every word he says makes her hope and every moment she hopes is another moment closer to heartbreak. She can’t let herself care for him. She can’t let herself fall for him. What chance do they have? Her parents would fight her every step of the way, _Neal_ would fight her. And he’ll leave. Just like everyone leaves. Everyone always leaves. 

“Swan,” he says, stepping towards her again. His hand comes up to cradle her jaw, thumb brushing against her cheek as he tilts her chin up to face him. 

“Don’t,” she warns again, tears burning her eyes now.

“Is that so hard for you to believe? That someone would want to stay? That I-”

“Stop,” she says again, giving him no choice this time, pulling him to her and stealing whatever words might have fallen from his lips with her own.

She kisses him until a small groan rumbles deep in his throat, reverberating through her and sending tremors of desire coursing through every inch of her body. She can’t let him in. She can’t let him say whatever it was he was going to say. But this, this she can do. She needs this, him. Nothing else calms and excites her all at once like this. Nothing else stops everything like this. 

His hand leaves her cheek, tangling in her hair, fisting in it and tugging as he opens her mouth under his. Her hands leave his face, sliding down his neck to his chest to the clasps of his vest. He breaks apart from her as she undoes the first one, looking down at her hands and then back at her with heavy lidded eyes. There’s a question there, a request or a plea. 

She answers by undoing the next clasp and he drags her back to him, tongue delving, seeking, teeth nipping at her lips as he guides her backwards until her back collides softly but urgently with a tree. By then she has his vest undone and she pushes it off, shoving his jacket down with it where it falls heavily onto the jungle floor. 

She finds his shirt next, not bothering with the few buttons as she pulls it from his pants and lifts the shirt over his head. He releases her long enough to lift his arms and help her to pull it free from his hook. She traces her fingers along his forearms, marveling at the sinewy muscles and dark hair under her hands, hesitating a moment over his tattoo. 

She follows the path to his biceps, to his shoulders, tracing the intricacies of his brace on one side, and the defined shape of his obvious strength on the other. She realises she’s never seen his arms before. His chest is always on full display but the rest of him is always covered head to toe in leather, in armour. She traces along his sides next, over his ribs where she notices another tattoo: ‘ _Liam’_ written out in small, elegant script. 

She looks at him, so much of him on display beneath her hands. He’s so goddamn beautiful and it sends an ache tugging low in her belly. As she draws her gaze up his neck and jaw to his face, she finds him watching her, something curious and tender beneath the desire. She kisses him again so she doesn’t have to see it. This isn’t what this is. 

He takes the hint, hook snaking into her belt loop to pull her hips firmly against his as his hot and calloused hand slides up under her shirt, over her stomach to her breast. She keens when he presses his palm against her, dragging over her slowly, filling his hand before his fingers find her nipple through her bra. 

She pushes him back a little, almost smirking at his surprised expression before pulling her shirt over her head, reaching behind her to undo her bra and let it fall somewhere at her feet. She reaches for him but he steps back, eyes raking over her slowly and intently and goosebumps raise everywhere that his eyes burn over her. 

“ _Bloody hell,”_ he breathes. 

“You gonna do something about it?” she challenges, and then he’s on her, lips attacking her neck, causing her to cry out as he sucks a mark into the hollow of her collarbone, dragging his tongue down her chest to her breast. He takes a nipple into his mouth, rolling it under his tongue and his teeth and she fists her hand in his hair so tight that she thinks it might hurt. His strangled moan makes her think he doesn’t care. 

He moves to her neglected breast, giving it the same treatment before nipping and licking and sucking his way down her ribs and her stomach to her navel and to the waist of her jeans as he kneels before her. He doesn’t ask for permission this time, the way she pushes her hips against him clear enough as he makes quick work of them, sliding them down her legs and pulling them off along with her boots. 

He looks up at her, toying idly with the waist of her panties, and it’s the hottest fucking thing she’s ever seen. Killian Jones, _Captain Hook_ , shirtless with his hair a mess, kneeling between her legs and watching her like he wants to devour her. Then he smirks, eyebrow twitching up as he leans forward, holding her gaze as he presses an open mouthed kiss to her covered clit. Nevermind, _that’s_ the hottest thing she’s ever seen. 

“ _Killian_ ,” she begs, shocking them both as his name falls from her lips. Something flashes in his eyes then and suddenly he’s yanking the fabric off of her and pulling her leg over his shoulder. _Fuck_ . _Fuck yes_ , is all she can think. But… “We don’t have time,” she tells him, knowing that the others could wake up at any moment, that Pan or a lost boy could stumble upon them. 

He glances up at her with a smile that she can only describe as devilish. “There is _always_ time, Swan,” he insists. Before she can protest or agree, his tongue is dragging through her folds, licking her slowly until he reaches her clit and pulls it into his mouth. 

“Fuck!” she practically yells, head falling back as she fists her hands in his hair. She can feel him smirking against her but she doesn’t care because his tongue is flicking against her clit now, slowly, meticulously, and then quicker as she starts to roll her hips against his talented mouth. 

He alternates flicking his tongue against her and sucking on her sensitive bundle as his fingers find her opening and push in roughly, pumping into her hard and fast. One of her hands finds his shoulder, steading herself against him, nails digging into his flesh, and he drives her to her climax so goddamn fast that she barely registers she’s almost there until she’s right at the brink. 

She’s gasping, muttering incoherent yeses and pleas, when he suddenly pulls away and stands and she wants to scream. But before she can, he’s freeing himself from his leathers and pulling her knee up over his hip, sliding into her easily despite his impressive size. 

Her fingers link behind his neck, her head thrown back against the bark behind her as he thrusts up into her purposefully, each stroke powerful and just the right side of rough. She’s forced to stand on her toes, foot nearly lifted off the ground as he drives into her, but she doesn’t want him to stop. Fuck, she’s never going to be able to stop. Not now that she knows _this_ is what it’s like to be with him. 

His head falls to her shoulder, lips and teeth finding her neck as he moves faster and she knows he’s close, can hear it in the desperate sounds he’s breathing against her skin. She’s nearly there, she just needs… He pulls her thigh higher over his hip, hand finding her ass and pressing her closer until he’s grinding against her clit with every push inside of her and that’s it. 

Her back arches and her head falls back as she screams out her climax into the quiet of the jungle. He looks up at her, watching her fall apart, brows pinched in blissful anguish as he sets a breakneck pace, seeking his own release. She fists her hands into his hair, tugging and watching as his face becomes almost pained before she captures his lips with hers, biting at his lips, sucking at his tongue until she swallows his moan as it reverberates through her chest and he goes rigid. 

She can feel him finishing hot inside her and it sends another little quiver of pleasure through her, her muscles contracting around him and he groans, sliding his tongue into her mouth and seeking her own. 

They stay there, pressed against the tree, panting into each other’s mouths, seeking whatever they can find in one another until the sweat begins to cool on her body and a shiver runs through her, bringing her back to reality. He seems to sense the change because he’s the one to break the kiss first.

She just looks at him, unable to process any of her thoughts. She doesn’t know what this means. She doesn’t know what she _wants_ it to mean. The thought that it could mean anything at all is terrifying to her. But a part of her knows she’ll find herself here again. But this is all it can be. 

She can’t risk it. Can’t risk him. She’s damaged goods and she’ll hurt him or he’ll hurt her because… she cares. Fuck. She cares. There’s nothing more dangerous or terrifying to her than getting her heart involved. If she has to choose - and she does have to choose - the one where her heart isn’t on the line is the only safe option. 

Neal could never break her heart. Not again. She’d have to be able to give it to him first for that. 

She tenses in his arms, hands sliding from his shoulders to curl into her chest and she tries to make some room between them. She can’t look at him but it’s like he can read her mind, his eyes casting over her face as she makes her decision. Open book he’s always said.

He lets out a soft sigh of a laugh, self-deprecating and accepting as he slides out of her and pulls back, allowing her room to dress as he pulls his pants back up his hips. She knows he thinks she regrets it. She wishes she could tell him she doesn’t. But she can’t give him hope. And he wouldn’t believe her if she did, not while she’s practically recoiling from his touch. 

“So you’ve made your choice then?” he asks, but it’s not really a question.

“Killian…” 

“Don’t call me that,” he says, shaking his head and it feels like a knife twisting in her heart. 

“I-” 

“You don’t have to explain, Swan,” he says. “He’s Henry’s father. He’s a better man.” 

She wants to scream at him, tell him that he’s wrong, but that would mean facing whatever it is that’s happened between them, whatever it was that started on that beanstalk and led them here, and she can’t do that. 

He watches her for another moment, the pain and the self-loathing written all over his face before he slides his mask of indifference right back up and it hurts to see. It's the one he wore in New York and in Storybrooke after she betrayed him. She supposes this isn’t much different. 

He gathers the rest of his clothes, nodding at her once before heading off into the jungle. “Don’t stay out here alone,” he says over his shoulder, and a tear runs hot down her cheek. He may hate her right now, but he’s still watching out for her. 

***

They defeat Pan. They save Henry. She still can’t believe it. But they’re sailing back to Storybrooke and her son is sleeping soundly down below in Killian’s cabin. She frowns. She wonders when she started thinking of him as Killian. _Probably when you realised how you felt about him, probably right before you broke his heart._

She’s staring out at the sky below them, leaning on the railing and she lets her head fall over her arms. When did everything get so complicated? She feels so lost. She wishes she had someone to help her, someone to guide her. She wishes she had Mary Margaret, her friend, but that woman is gone. In her place is Snow White, her mother. Someone who should understand her but doesn’t. 

It’s Snow who finds her, places a comforting hand on her shoulder and gives her a supportive smile when she looks up. 

“Are you alright?” she asks. Emma shakes her head, too tired to lie, and her mom gives her a sad look. “Emma…” she starts, and she braces herself for whatever speech is about to come. “I know that love can be scary. And after all you’ve been through, I don’t blame you for being afraid of it. That’s my fault,” she says and Emma wants to say no - well, yes, but not _just_ her fault. 

“But if you think that everyone that cares about you and who you let yourself care about is going to hurt you, if you don’t _let_ yourself try and open up to the possibility… you might keep out pain, but you’ll also keep out love,” she finishes, parroting her words from so long ago and for a moment, Emma feels like she has her friend back, like Mary Margaret understands her. 

“You owe it to yourself to give Neal a chance,” she says, and it’s like a bucket of ice water falling over her. “I know what you said, about it being easier to forget about the pain and to move on with him out of your life. But he’s your first love; he’s Henry’s father. Don’t you think he deserves a second chance? Don’t you think Henry does, that _you_ do?” 

Tears well in Emma’s eyes and her mother misreads them, assuming she’s hit the mark. She couldn’t be more wrong. But she’s right. Choosing Neal is easier. It's what everyone wants. It’s what everyone expects. It's the easiest way to make everyone she cares about happy. Even if it’s at the cost of her own happiness. Of Killian’s happiness. Her heart burns in her chest.

She wonders where Killian is. They’ve barely spoken since their moment in the jungle. He hadn’t been cruel or even angry, of course he hadn’t. But he’d been distant, keeping himself at arms length. She understands that, self-preservation and all. She’s been doing the same. She hears footsteps and looks up to see Neal walking towards them. Mary Margaret gives her an encouraging smile before disappearing below deck. 

Neal leans against the railing next to her. “We did it,” he says, a big, satisfied smile on his face. “We got our kid back. We got our family back,” he says and the word is loaded. 

“Yeah,” she nods, forces a smile. Neal could never tell the difference between her real ones and her fake ones. “We did.” 

He nudges her shoulder with his and she laughs. They _did_ get their son back. That’s the silver lining to this. That’s what she should be focused on. “Emma, listen,” he says then. “I meant what I said. I’ll never stop fighting for you.” His words twist in her gut but she doesn’t let it show. “And now that everyone’s okay, that it’s all over and everything is behind us… maybe we could try again.” _Everything is behind us_. Just like that he’s wiping his slate clean of any wrongs he’s done her. 

“Neal, I-” 

“I know I hurt you, Emma. But I had to. You know I did. And we have Henry to think about too. Do you think there’s anything he’d want more than for his parents to get back together? Don’t you think we ought to try? For him?” Her fist clenches against the railing but he takes it in his. “I’m just asking for a chance, Ems.” 

She considers him, thinks of Henry. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.” 

He beams, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing it, then, before she even knows what’s happening, he’s leaning in and pressing his lips to hers. It’s familiar, slow and practiced and it brings a slew of painful memories rushing back to the surface. He pulls back with a pleased smile and she forces one back. 

“I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” he asks and she nods. As she watches him walk away, she knows one thing for sure. There’s definitely no risk with Neal. He could never break her heart. She could never give it to him. 

She brings her fingers to her lips, still feeling his kiss and his scruff burning against her chin and it just feels… wrong. It leaves an ache in her, an emptiness and a need, a craving for something else and her whole body hums with it, burns with it. It’s wrong. It’s wrong. It’s wrong. It’s wrong. She needs to make it right, to set it right. 

She walks almost blindly through the ship's lower deck, making her way past the crew’s quarters where everyone sleeps, past the captain’s cabin where Regina is watching over a sleeping Henry, past the galley and the storage and every other room she doesn’t recognize until she reaches the back, the bosun’s quarters where she knows she’ll find him. 

She pushes the door open, not bothering to knock and he sits up where he was lounging on the narrow mattress, book balanced on his knee. He’s discarded his coat and his vest, his suspenders hanging at his sides. “Swan?” he asks, a frown marrying his brow. “What’s wrong?” 

She doesn’t speak. She just crosses the room to the bed, shoving the book out of his hands and climbing over him, straddling his hips as she pulls his lips to hers, hands finding his shoulders as she uses his shock to push him back against the pillows. 

“Swan,” he breathes against her mouth. “What are you -” She stops his words with her lips again, sliding her tongue into his mouth until she can pull that groan that she loves so much from his chest. “Emma,” he tries again, weaker this time and a little desperate. 

She shakes her head, kissing him again, biting his lip, pulling at it, teasing him with her tongue until he breaks, sitting up and kissing her back, taking control as he tilts her head this way and that, arm sliding around her hips to set her more firmly in his lap. _Yes_. This is what she needed. The press of his lips, the scratch of his stubble, it feels right. And she knows she can’t have it, not really, but she can have tonight. She can have one last night. 

She feels him stirring beneath her and she grinds her hips down over his to encourage him. It works, his lips dropping to her neck, sliding her shirt easily over her head and taking her breast in his mouth like he already knows she likes. God, he’s perfect. Perfect in that he’s not. In that he _knows_ he’s not. That he doesn’t pretend to be. He knows her. He understands her. And she knows she’s going to break his heart. 

She stops him as his hand begins to trail down to her jeans, pushing against his shoulders until he lays back. She pulls his shirt open, not caring about the few buttons that she sends flying across the floor as her lips latch onto his neck, desperately trying to find the spots that make him let out those sounds she can’t get enough of. 

When he’s practically writhing beneath her, she trails kisses down the center of his chest, glancing up at him as he watches her, her lips teasing their way down to the waist of his pants where he’s already straining against the laces. She can see the head of his cock just peeking out and she draws her tongue over him. He hisses, hips pressing up involuntarily towards her. 

She makes quick work of his laces, shoving his pants far enough down his hips that she can free him from them and take him in hand. He gasps out her name and it spurs her on, knowing how much he wants her. She’s glad when he doesn’t protest, only watches her as she drags her tongue slowly up the length of him before taking him fully into her mouth. 

His back arches, his hook reaching up to find purchase on the headboard as his hand tangles in her hair. The sounds he makes as she works him with her lips and tongue send heat straight to her core, making her slick and desperate as she tries to rub her thighs together and find some relief. He lets out a litany of sighs and moans and words, both praise and filth as she drives him towards his release. 

Before she can, he uses his hold on her hair to pull her off of him, to slide her back up his body to face him where he looks at her like he can’t quite believe she’s real. He reaches for her pants, undoing them and pushing them down her hips. She rolls onto her back beside him so that she can work them off and his mouth finds her breast, tongue pulling at her already hardened nipple and making her gasp. 

As soon as she’s free of her jeans, she rolls back on top of him, taking his cock in hand and sinking down onto him. They both hold still for a moment, adjusting to the feel of him inside her, to how fucking perfectly he fits. Fuck, she’s going to miss this. 

He lets out another moan as she starts to ride him, head falling back against the pillows. She’s never seen him quite like this, so lost in his bliss, so out of control, and _god_ it makes her want him even more. She braces herself on his shoulders, moving over him faster, hips snapping against his, and he looks at her like she might just destroy him.

His hand grabs hold of her hip, pulling her down harder against him as his own hips lift up to meet her with every thrust. She can’t believe how close she is. He’s barely touched her. But with every roll of her hips over his, every time she feels him fill her up again and again, she feels like she’s on fire and she just wants to keep burning. 

“Fuck, Emma,” he curses, his brow pinched tight, the chords of his neck stretched taunt. “Emma I’m going to -” he tries to warn her but she only rides him harder, desperate to get him there first. Her nails dig into his chest as she tries to hold off as long as she can and she sees the moment he breaks. It’s the most fucking amazing thing she’s ever seen and it sends her over the edge, collapsing over top of him as they both struggle to catch their breath. 

His fingers trail over her spine, his head tilting down to kiss the skin of her shoulder, turning to press another to her temple. God, she wants to just stay here with him, to let him keep tracing patterns over her back, to let him keep kissing whatever parts of her he can reach, to let him just hold her here as long as she needs. But that’s exactly why she can’t. 

“Emma,” he says softly, a little hopefully and she rises, getting off of him and standing, pulling her jeans and shirt back on, not bothering to look for her underwear because that would take too long. “Emma,” he says again and she makes herself look at him, makes herself face the hurt she’s causing him. It’s better this way. They’ll only hurt each other in the long run if they keep this up. “So, it’s still Neal then,” he says finally. 

She nods. “It has to be.” 

“And this was what?” he asks, an edge of anger in his voice. “Goodbye? One last fuck with the pirate before you go back to the man you’re making yourself choose? The one you’re settling for?” 

Tears burn her eyes. “Killian...” 

“I told you not to call me that,” he says, bitterness in his tone. “It’s Hook you want.” But he’s wrong, and that’s exactly the problem. It _is_ Killian she wants, the man he might be, the man he is, the man she wants too much to trust herself with. 

“Goodbye,” she says, backing away towards the door. “I’m sorry.”

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
